During the spring of 2015, I had the momentous experience of being pregnant through three of the most transitional periods of my life — the end of graduate school, the job market, and the beginning of my new faculty position. Although being on the job market while pregnant was no cakewalk, and starting my first semester as a faculty member the week before I was due was not exactly convenient, the most trying time of my whole pregnancy was the six months I was completing my dissertation in grad school.
I found out I was pregnant the morning of my last final before I was officially A.B.D. Married, but on birth control (as I am sure almost every female graduate student is), I had experienced some strange symptoms, so I decided to take a quick, precautionary pregnancy test before walking into my exam. I was almost out the door before I remembered to check the results. I ran back to the bathroom, glanced at the test, and there it was, clear as day: two pink lines.
Shocked, I didn’t have time to process the information. I ran to class, sat down, endeavored to concentrate on my three-hour written final, and attempted to wipe away stray tears that began spilling onto my computer. A student across from me gave a sympathetic frown, assuming I was upset by the magnitude of the questions. I couldn’t explain that I was fully prepared for the exam, but fully unprepared for what my future would look like over the next year.
I was fortunate enough to have my dissertation data collected, my prospectus written and defended, and most of my data analyzed prior to my pregnancy revelation. At this point all that was standing between me and graduation was a few chapters, my final defense, and a growing fetus. I spent some time during winter break mapping out how I was going to hide my pregnancy until graduation.
I couldn’t keep it secret long from my fellow students. I returned from break ready to devote the next week to resolving some reliability and validity issues in my research, and instead spent the next five days praising the porcelain gods.
My husband, an accountant, had told his office about the pregnancy and received congratulations and well wishes. What did I receive? Sympathetic looks and encouraging pats on the back. My fellow grad students and office mates kindly brought me water, but they also thanked me for reminding them of “the importance of using reliable birth control.” One colleague said that because of my situation she’d made an appointment with her OB to make sure “something like this” didn’t happen to her, and I overheard a friend expressing to another student how grateful she was that she wasn’t in that situation.
Going into graduate school, I understood that sacrifices were going to be made, but I neglected to consider the price of being pregnant in graduate school.
As hard as I tried to hide the pregnancy from my adviser, after a few weeks and an extra 12 pounds, it became obvious that I needed to say something. Hormone-laden, stressed, and exhausted, I confessed my pregnancy. My adviser and my other professors handled the pregnancy news as diplomatically as possible. They were careful to avoid any comment that could be interpreted as biased or anti-feminist, instead asking about the logistics of completing my dissertation by my scheduled defense date. We discussed drafts, dates, and the defense. With few exceptions, that was it. No heartfelt congratulations, no warm hugs, just a sincere hope that I would “be able to finish up and get graduated.”
Graduation was my primary goal. I brought pillows into my office to support my back as I sat at my desk and typed. I brought Lysol wipes to the bathroom so I could clean the toilet bowl after I vomited. I got up two hours early every morning so I could stave off some of the morning sickness before I had to be on campus, and I kept a box of vanilla Zingers under my desk for those times when my energy was spent and I needed fuel to keep going.
I am happy to say that I am a successful graduate-school-pregnancy survivor. And I proudly walked across the stage at graduation wearing a gown that was taken out seven inches to fit my growing belly. After graduation my adviser and some professors genuinely wished me good luck with the delivery and baby, but others seemed to completely write me off, as though now that I had a baby on the way they were not going to invest any further time in my success.
Fortunately I found a full-time teaching job at a two-year college where I started as an instructor and am “promotion-eligible” to move up its version of the tenure track. The college allowed me to teach exclusively online during my first semester on the job, which helped me balance my work and deal with a newborn.
Looking back, I wish I had done things differently. Why was I so scared of people knowing that I — a 28-year-old married woman in the final year of her Ph.D. program — was pregnant? Why was I so concerned about finishing my dissertation that spring? Would it have been the worst thing if I had waited a year and resumed my studies after my baby was born?
The answer is academic culture. It is so arduous that even extremely personal decisions and events are stripped of their importance. In a recent column, an assistant professor detailed the anxiety that she felt each month, noting: “At 36, I am in a very happy, entirely loving, and stable relationship, yet I still sweat the arrival of my period.” Certainly if tenure-track faculty are experiencing these apprehensions about pregnancy, that same mentality is being passed down to graduate students.
During the four years I was in my Ph.D. program I missed countless birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, and funerals — all in the name of academe. But my biggest regret is missing the chance to savor my pregnancy.
Going into graduate school, I understood that sacrifices were going to be made, and I was prepared to make them, but I neglected to consider the price of being pregnant in graduate school. Fear of “failing” as a grad student denied me the opportunity to fully enjoy my changing body, the little kicks, and the precious ultrasounds. I regret apologizing for my frequent bathroom breaks, insatiable cravings, and mound of Zingers wrappers in the trash rather than relishing in the fact that my family was expanding, and my dreams of being a professor and a mother were simultaneously coming true.
I can’t go back and change the past, and I (thankfully) will never be a pregnant graduate student again, but what I can help change is the family-unfriendly culture that permeates many graduate programs. I hope that one day I can mentor an individual who is both pregnant and a student. I hope I can help that woman see the bliss of parenthood through the thick walls of scholarship. I hope I can tell her that being educated will be an asset to being a good parent. I hope I can encourage her to complete her education while savoring this transitional, emotional, and personal time of her life. And I hope I remember to bring her plenty of vanilla Zingers.
